


the boy who brought death (& the warrior who made him bloom)

by magisterpavus



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Altars, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cats, Character Death, Curses, Fantasizing, God(dess) of Death, Grief/Mourning, Loneliness, M/M, Magic, Pining, Protective Keith (Voltron), Spirits, Violence, but trust me ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 18:23:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20980355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterpavus/pseuds/magisterpavus
Summary: Keith is a god of death, and Shiro is dying.Of course, there's a little more to the story than that.





	the boy who brought death (& the warrior who made him bloom)

**Author's Note:**

> I hope everyone is having a wonderful & spooky October. Here's a story I've been wanting to post for a while; it was a delight to write (from a prompt for the lovely Maya) and I hope you enjoy it <3

Keith is a god of death, and Shiro is dying.

Of course, there’s more to the story than that. First, there was a farmer, and the farmer had a wife so beautiful that everyone who saw her thought she must be a dryad. She was no dryad, but her mother was a river nymph, and her father a fisherman who drowned during the consummation, leaving the nymph to raise her half-human daughter in the flighty, fantastical way of water nymphs.

The farmer did not know this. He knew only that he loved his wife, and she loved him, and before long she was pregnant. She would sit in the garden with the strange flowers and fruits she planted every year after the thaw, rubbing her round belly and watching her husband tend to their little farm. They had chickens, a white milk cow, a few ornery goats, an angry goose, a patient plow horse, a sly tabby cat, and an old hound who liked to sit with the wife, because she always gave the best ear scratches.

It was a lovely little farm, for a while. 

The wife gave birth in late autumn, when all the flowers had died and the fields were bare and the chickens had stopped laying and the old hound had ambled off into the woods one night and never returned. This was the first sign. 

The second sign was that the night the farmer’s son was born, there was no moon. It was dark and cold and still, save for the baby’s first screams and the mother’s weeping. The father did not know it, but she did not weep with joy.

You see, when the river nymph’s daughter turned twelve, her mother took her to the oldest tree in the forest, and the tree told the daughter a prophecy. 

_Your first and only child will belong to Death, _the tree told her, _and you must leave after his first birthday, or he will discover his true nature too soon._

The daughter, now wife, now mother, first thought this meant her child would be stillborn. But he was born alive, ruddy-faced with black hair and dark eyes, and when he curled his tiny fingers around her thumb, she thought her heart might break when she would have to leave him.

The father was overjoyed. They named their son Keith, and though the cold winter ahead, they kept him warm and fed and safe, even as more and more of the farm animals succumbed to the snow. They lost not only the hound, but the cow and several chickens, too. The mother insisted on going to market to find a new cow, for she knew its death was Keith’s doing. Yet, how could he know it was his fault? 

The mother left after Keith’s first birthday. She left no note, no explanation. The father was heartbroken. He held his son ever closer. The harvest that year was poor, and the father saved all the best of it for Keith. So his son grew and grew, while his father’s cheekbones grew hollow, and his hair thinned and grayed. 

By age seven, Keith was an adventurous child, but shy around others. He liked the farm animals, but they always avoided him, and he could not understand why. Other townsfolk thought he was strange, something off about his wide dark eyes and careful manner of speech. Only his father loved him, and told him that what others thought did not matter.

But then, on the very day of his seventh birthday, the farm burned down, and his father with it. Keith stood outside, watching the flames, clutching a straw doll to his chest with bitter confusion. “Papa?” he called. “Papa! Where are you? I don’t want to be alone!”

His father was long gone. When the fire died out, it left only black ash behind, and a few charred bones. Keith ran away into the forest. The farm animals did not follow him. 

He curled up amongst the ferns at the base of a dark elm tree, and buried his head in his hands, and began to cry softly. He knew the forest was full of dangerous things, but he fell asleep there anyway, for he had nowhere else to go, and had begun to fear that he was a dangerous thing, too. 

When Keith awoke, there was a large wolf cub snuggled up against him. Keith held very still as it opened its intelligent yellow eyes, and sniffed at his palm with its wet nose. “Good boy,” Keith whispered. “Will you be my friend?”

The wolf huffed at him, and climbed to its feet, and nudged Keith up with it. Keith stood, and walked with the wolf through the forest, away from the world of the living.

*

The years passed until one day, just over a decade after the boy walked with his wolf into the woods, a man found the abandoned farm and decided it was as good a home as any. The stone foundation remained despite the fire, and some of the farm animals had stayed: the tabby cat, who had since died but left several kittens behind, now grown; the plow horse, who was now quite elderly; the goats, who turned the ruined house into their playground; and the chickens, who had found a wild rooster, and thus made many more chickens.

The man was named Shiro, and he was a traveling warrior. He did not like the term ‘mercenary,’ because he never took more from people than they were willing to give. He had done jobs for little more than a warm place to spend the night, or a bowl of good stew. The payment mattered less to him than the reward of keeping people safe.

Unfortunately, not all the men in his line of work thought the same way and this had resulted in some _disagreements,_ so Shiro had decided it was best to lay low for awhile, and perhaps try his hand at farming again.

Shiro threw himself with wholehearted devotion into rebuilding the farm as best he could. He wasn’t much of a stonemason, but he was strong and clever...and he had help.

You see, the boy and his wolf never truly left. 

Keith could never bring himself to go, despite the misfortune he had brought to this place. He never returned to the farm, but he watched it from the edge of the forest, peering through the trees and the ferns at his old home and the life that remained there. He returned each month, and that month he was surprised to find smoke in the remains of the chimney, and a man with a scarred nose and a kind smile carrying loads of lumber and stone to the house.

Keith watched him in fascination for what must have been hours – so long, in fact, that his wolf left halfway through out of boredom. But Keith was not bored. How could he be, watching such a man? He must have been a great warrior, Keith thought, for he was heavily muscled, scarred, and had a large sword in a leather scabbard which he had left near the fire. But in all other ways, he was not at all what Keith had imagined a warrior to be like.

The cats followed him around, and he kept stopping to pet them, to scoop them up and coo at them, and to scratch their little purring chins. Keith watched this in bewilderment, chin in hand. He learned the man’s name because he introduced himself to the cats: Takashi Shirogane, but “Shiro” for short.

Shiro had also brought a horse with him, a black steed with a handsome head who was now snuffling at the old plow horse. The plow horse whinnied happily at the sight of another horse after so long, and forgot his old joints when Shiro’s steed pranced around with him. Shiro watched them, then dug out some apples from his bag, and gave one to each horse. 

The goats kept getting in the way, as did the chickens, but Shiro never grew cross with them nor shoved any out of the way in anger. He just went about his work, and it was not long before Keith realized the warrior was out of his element – determined though he was, he could not figure out the right way to make mortar, and after several tries threw up his hands in frustration and went to gather more stone with a marked slump to his shoulders. Soon after that, he announced to the farm animals that he was going to town and would be back before dark, then saddled his horse and rode off down the dirt road.

For the first time in ten years, Keith crept out of the forest. The farm animals shied away from him as they had before, and Keith did not blame them. Instead, he finished mixing the mortar the right way, and cut and laid a few of the stones for good measure. He wanted to bring the warrior supper but worried it would be too much, so he hurried back into the woods and resumed his position in the undergrowth. 

When Shiro returned, he brought food and drink for himself, as well as some proper grain and hay for the animals, and some better tools. Keith watched in tense silence as he approached the mortar, his brow furrowing when he saw the freshly laid stones. His hand fell upon his sword hilt. “Hello?” Shiro called, low and wary. “Who’s there? Show yourself.”

Keith did nothing of the sort. He sank further down into the ferns, heart pounding.

To his relief, Shiro let go of his sword after examining the perimeter and staring for awhile at the mortar and stones. Keith could not stop himself from grinning when Shiro tried the new mortar and was baffled to find it worked. “What in the world…?” Shiro muttered, shaking his head as he set another stone on the layer of mortar paste. “Maybe this forest does have fairies after all, hm?” He looked down at one of the cats, who was pawing at the stones with interest. “Is it you? I bet it is. Thank you, helpful little fairy.” He gave the cat a kiss, and laughed good-naturedly when it swatted at his face.

_A fairy._ Keith sat back on his heels and covered his blushing face. That was a pretty name for what he was. He would take it. He would be the most helpful little fairy he could be, if it would make Shiro stay here – for he had never seen a man more worthy to live in his old home than this one.

*

Days turned into weeks and months, and Keith watched as Shiro turned the ruined farm into a home again. He did more than watch, too – he helped in all the little ways he could, especially when the first snows fell. Under Keith’s watch, Shiro’s next meal was never far away, and when he saw Shiro shivering at night, he left a bearskin on the front steps. This spooked Shiro, but he used the bearskin, as Keith hoped he would. 

Keith even kept the kittens from wandering into the snowy forest at night. One of the cats had given birth at the most inopportune time, and her adventurous kittens kept getting lost. Shiro got worried sick every time, but Keith always brought them back. 

Once, Shiro almost discovered him. Keith had just grabbed the squirmy black kitten and was hurrying through the deep snow towards the house when the door swung open, and Shiro walked out with a torch. 

Keith shrank back into the shadows, clutching the squirming cat in his gloved hands and holding it as far away from his body as he could. Shiro peered into the darkness, his torchlight almost blinding. “Sweetpea!” he called, handsome face pinched with concern. “Oh, baby, where did you run off to? It’s too cold out here, your little paws will freeze off…” He trudged through the snow, calling for Sweetpea. 

In Keith’s arms, the kitten yowled. Shiro stopped walking, and turned to look directly at where Keith crouched in the shadows. “Sweetpea?”

Shiro saw him. Keith was sure of it. A moment before Keith half-threw the cat into the snow and dashed back to the safety of the forest, Shiro looked right at him, eyes widening and lips parting in confusion. 

Keith never should have let this happen. He got too close, and Shiro would pay the price for it. That night, after he stayed to see Shiro catch the kitten and cuddle her close to his chest, Keith ran off into the forest, curled around his sleepy wolf, and cried. He could not return to the farmhouse, nor to Shiro. Keith didn’t know what he would do if there was another fire...if Shiro’s bones joined his father’s in that cursed earth.

For the rest of the long winter, Keith forced himself to stay in his part of the forest, the deepest part, far from any towns or people. He made his new home at an ancient altar, one meant for a better god than himself that had long since abandoned it. No one remembered it. It suited Keith just fine. He refused to admit it was the loneliest place in the world.

Instead, he drank from his clear, burbling creek, he played and hunted with his wolf, he practiced painting with the plants and charcoal he collected, and he lay alone and watched the stars through the treetops every night.

But try as he might, he did not forget Shiro. All too often, his paintings began to take the shape of Shiro’s smiling face, or his muscled form, or his capable hands holding a squealing kitten, and Keith would have to abandon the work altogether. Even more often, Keith would lay awake at night, looking past the stars, imagining how it would be if Shiro were here with him. 

He imagined how gently Shiro would touch him, with the strong hands of a warrior, hands that had surely touched Death before. Some nights, Keith deluded himself into believing Shiro was somehow immune to his curse – he would not be afraid to embrace Keith, to curve around him, over him, in him, and kiss him breathless. He would not be afraid when Keith touched him back, when Keith made him feel good, for once...that is all Keith wanted – to bring happiness, life, peace, pleasure. He wanted to give Shiro that.

When the snow melted, Keith made a decision. He would go back to the farm – not to touch Shiro as he so longed to do, for that would spell his doom, but because he needed to see Shiro and to know he was alright. There had been strange omens afoot in the last few weeks – a blood moon, a dead stag, a shattered bird’s egg – and Keith had to be certain of the warrior’s wellbeing.

Keith crept along the familiar path with his wolf, who began to whine before the farmhouse came into view. Keith looked down at him, gut twisting. The wolf padded forward, hackles raised, lips pulling back from his teeth in a low, warning growl. Keith followed, anxiety climbing as he smelled smoke, then saw it – a horse, running in a blind panic through the woods. It was Shiro’s steed, his coat soaked with sweat, foaming at the mouth. His eyes rolled back in his head when Keith approached. “Shhh,” Keith whispered, his voice trembling. “What happened to you?” 

Then he saw the bloodied wound slashed across the horse’s flank, the kind of cut only caused by a swordblade, and took a stumbling step back before breaking into a run for the farm. His wolf stayed with the horse, who was so beside himself with terror and exhausted from his flight that he simply laid down, his sides heaving. 

Keith stopped himself from calling out, even when he saw the smoke – not from the house, but from a bonfire in the yard, over which one of the goats was roasting on a spit. There were men all around the fire, men dressed like warriors with swords and axes and blood on their hands. And then there was Shiro, beaten down to the ground with the largest and angriest of the men holding him down. 

Perhaps, if Keith had arrived a few moments sooner, he could have saved Shiro. But he knew in his heart that this was his fault. His curse brought these men to Shiro’s door. 

So when the man brought his axeblade down onto Shiro’s right arm, severing it above the elbow, Keith could do nothing. It happened too fast. It was only afterwards that he found himself leaping from the trees, ripping his gloves off with a fury he had never felt before. It rippled through him like a building storm and he knew his power was more terrible than it had ever been before. The men looked up at him, first with startled laughter, then with narrowed eyes. They reached for their weapons. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Keith said, and standing before them young, beautiful, and barechested, he supposed he might look like a magical fairy. That is, until he reached out, touched the man who felled Shiro, and sent him crumpling to the ground. “Just kill you,” Keith added, softly. 

The men roared and leaped to their feet, but Keith was too fast. He darted between them, catching them on the arm, the neck, the face, the leg, the chest. They all fell down around him. None even managed to graze him. When it was done, he stood amidst a thick circle of still bodies. Their ghosts clamoured to be set free, but Keith would not give them peace – endless torment was their fate. 

Shiro’s ghost, however...Keith bowed his head, and put his gloves back on. He knelt beside Shiro, and sucked in a sharp breath – he was still alive. Barely, but alive.

Keith bandaged the bloodied stump of his arm with his own scarf, praying that it would not seal Shiro’s fate simply by its belonging to him. There was so much blood, soaking through the scarf in seconds. Keith rolled him carefully over, cradling his head in his lap and feeling for a pulse with his gloved fingers. Shiro’s eyes fluttered open, dazed. He looked up at Keith, and...smiled. “It’s you,” he murmured. “My fairy helper. I knew you would come back…” His eyes began to close again.

“Please,” Keith whispered, voice trembling, “stay with me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Shiro’s eyes opened again. “Sorry…? No...you are good, you helped me, I know you did…”

Then he fell unconscious. Keith had no choice but to carry him inside, finding the farmhouse a mess – the warriors had ruined the place, but at least Shiro still had a bed. Keith laid him upon it, and went about making proper bandages. He did not want to leave Shiro, but returned to the warriors’ bodies outside to see if they had any useful supplies.

As he wandered among their bodies, he saw something glint on the axeblade of the largest warrior. Keith froze, leaning down to look with heavy dread. The blade dripped not just with blood. Keith touched a finger to it, and brought it to his nose. Poison.

Keith stood, numb, hands falling limp at his sides. He stared at the open door to the farmhouse, at Shiro inside on the bed. The cats had found him – they had managed to hide under the bed, clever things, and were sniffing at his wound, pawing at his face, tails flicking. When Keith approached, they turned on him with hisses before fleeing back under the bed. 

Defeated, Keith sat on the bed’s edge, head in his hands. “You deserved better than this,” Keith told him. “Better than me. I...I don’t know why I thought it would be different, this time. But I hoped…”

Shiro’s remaining hand brushed against Keith’s side, and Keith jumped, staring in horror at where Shiro’s fingers made contact with his skin. “If you are the last thing I see, that would be alright,” Shiro mumbled, still smiling, somehow. “Can you tell me one thing, fairy? Can you tell me your name? I’m Shiro. Takashi…”

“Yes, I know your name.” Keith swallowed, and then, because it was already too late, reached out and gripped Shiro’s hand in his own. “My name is Keith. It...it’s good to meet you, Shiro.”

“Thank you, Keith,” Shiro sighed, and closed his eyes. 

*

Shiro awoke in a cool, dark cave. No, not a cave — it was a ruin, walls dark with moss, the stone floor below him softened by a bed of river reeds and goose down. Shiro sat up, dizzy, picking feathers out of his hair and peering into the gloom, for the ruin lead down, down below the earth, and he could not tell how far it continued.

“Hello?” he called. “Is anyone there?”

“Yes,” a voice called back from below the earth, “but it is not safe for me to come too near to you. You – you will move on, soon. Do not be frightened.”

It is the beautiful young man, the fairy named Keith who kept him warm in those cold winter nights and helped him build the house anew. Shiro swallowed. “You saved my life,” he said. “What do you mean, it is not safe?”

“I bring death to all I touch,” Keith said.

“Not to me,” Shiro replied.

The man was silent for a while. Then, “You should have gone, by now.”

“Gone where?”

Keith sounded frustrated. “Away – over. I brought you here to…” He trailed off. “Please just leave.”

“Wait,” Shiro protested, “surely there is something I can do to repay you.”

“Repay me for what?” Keith sighed. “I have only taken from you.”

It was then that Shiro noticed his right arm was missing. “Oh,” he said. “But — you still saved my life.”

“Fine,” Keith snapped, “if you must do something to repay me, then — then repair this altar. Make it a place of worship and honor again, one that people seek out instead of avoid. That is all you could ever do to repay me.”

“Then I shall!” Shiro declared, standing up with only some difficulty. “I promise.”

And, as the days pass, he did. He cleaned the altar inside and out, polished the stone, struggled only a little to lift and clear the rubble with one arm, and discovered the altar had a little pool of water beside it, one filled with silvery fishes and black tadpoles. 

He kept the moss and ivy, for he found it charming, but he cleared the brambles, and gathered up their fruit as the altar’s first new offering. Inside the altar, he built a sunken stone dish for other such offerings, and he planted wildflowers all along the walls. He did not go into the tunnels, and he did not see Keith.

He did, however, see his horse. The stallion was grazing in the forest clearing when he emerged from the ruin, scarred but alive and whole, and though at first he shied away when he saw Shiro, he trotted over at Shiro’s patient calling, and seemed to recognize him at last.

Shiro told the villagers of the forest of his discovery, and they marveled at his survival after hearing the tale of the mercenary band who hunted him down. Shiro told them it was Keith who saved him – though he never said Keith’s name. He called him “the night fairy,” though he no longer thought Keith was a fairy at all. A fairy could not kill so many men at once. A fairy could not heal a mortal wound.

Regardless of what Keith was, little by little, the villagers found and visited the altar, and left gifts of their own, or planted other things, like the saplings of fruit trees which grew tall with glossy red apples. The altar became a beautiful place, almost as beautiful as its elusive owner.

One night, there was no moon, and Shiro sat beside the little pool, watching the little fish swim and listening to the grown-up tadpoles sing in the reeds. He was so entranced by the pool that he did not see the figure sitting across from him, crouched among the mossy rocks, until he spoke.

“You kept your promise, Takashi Shirogane.”

Shiro looked up, eyes wide. Keith sat there, his head tilted, his skin glowing though there was no moonlight. His beautiful long black hair shone like a raven’s wing, and a long white cloak spilled over his shoulders and pooled at his feet like snow. 

“Of...of course. You helped me, it was the least I could do,” Shiro whispered, breathless at the sight of him. “And you deserve a beautiful place like this one,” he added shyly. Keith flushed a pale pink, the color of the first roses of summer. “Why have you hidden from me for so long? I may be a warrior, but I mean you no harm, not like the mercenaries who attacked. I hope you know that.”

“I know. You are not like them. Not at all.” Keith’s brow furrowed. “I...I have been hidden, trying to give you another gift,” he admitted. “But all my life, I have only been able to destroy, never to create. Still, I think, perhaps, the offerings at this place have changed that…” He swallowed, and reached out, across the pool. “Come here, Takashi Shirogane.”

Shiro did, slowly, not because he was wary but because he was afraid that he would spook Keith away if he moved too quickly. Keith did not flinch back when Shiro sat beside him, though. Instead, he placed his palm over Shiro’s right shoulder, and closed his eyes. 

His skin began to glow brighter as warmth flowed through Shiro’s skin, then all at once cold, and then a burst of silver light that nearly blinded him. When Shiro could see again, his right arm had returned, albeit in a ghostly form, but one that still felt solid to the touch.

Keith cringed away, his face falling. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I thought I could do it, I thought I could bring it back as it was, but it wasn’t enough, it’s never enough —”

Overwhelmed, Shiro pulled him into a hug, embracing him tightly with both arms, as he had been unable to do for so long. “Of course it is enough,” he whispered. _“You_ are enough, Keith, more than enough. Thank you.”

When he pulled away, Keith stared up at him, eyes round and wondering, as if _Shiro_ was a fairy. “You are welcome,” he gasped. “Can I kiss you?”

Shiro blinked rapidly. “I — erm — well — _yes?”_

Keith kissed him hard and pulls him down to the earth. With every touch, Keith made desperate little noises. “Please,” he said, “I have been watching you, all of these many months, and all the months before that, you are so beautiful, so good, and I have never wanted anything more.”

Shiro broke away with a gasp, his face burning. “You — _watched me?”_

He recalled every time he bathed in the nearby mountain stream, every time he lay awake in his bed in the meadow, unable to sleep without first slipping his hand beneath his undergarments and taking himself in hand, stroking and cursing at the thought of dark eyes and a needy, flushed body spread over the thick, soft bearskin, strong hands grasping his hair, his hips, pulling him in. 

He recalled every night before that, and the thought of Keith watching over him all the while, keeping him safe...no one had ever protected Shiro before. He was the warrior, the protector – until he wasn’t. Until Keith. Beautiful, powerful, selfless Keith. Shiro held Keith closer to himself and ran his hands through long black hair, kissing from Keith’s lips to his curving neck, showering him with the helpless affection and want burning warm in his chest.

Keith’s eyes darkened, pupils blown. “Yes, I watched you, all of it, I couldn’t look away,” he groaned. “Please, keep touching me, that feels — _oh…”_

Shiro obliged eagerly, but paused mid-kiss, pulling away with sudden hesitance. “I hate to ask this now,” he mumbled, “but is this alright, I mean, didn’t you once say you brought death to everything you touched…?”

Keith blinked at him, bewildered. “Yes,” he said, slowly. “But I have already brought it to you, Takashi Shirogane.”

Shiro froze. “What?” he squeaked.

Keith tilted his head. “You died,” he murmured. “That day you found me — I tried to save you, but the axeblade was poisoned, and it was spreading too fast. There was nothing I could do, except to be with you, and bring you to my altar so your spirit could pass on in peace. After all, it was my fault the mercenaries found you...you died that day. But — I don’t know how, something, this, you, came back. You didn’t want to leave...remember?”

“I’m a _ghost,”_ Shiro said faintly. “Then how...the villagers saw me…my horse…?”

Keith cupped his face and smiled gently, but sadly. “You’re not a ghost. I know ghosts, and you’re something more,” he said. “A god, I think. Like me. That is what they call us, anyway. But while I am a god of death and sorrow and cold, you are a god of life and joy and warmth. Just look around. Look at what you have created here. It should be yours...think of it as my last gift to you.”

Shiro gripped Keith’s waist with newfound determination. “This altar is for _you,”_ he said. “It is ours, Keith. And you do not bring me death, nor sorrow, nor cold. You did not bring those mercenaries, their own cruelty and vengeance did. That isn’t your fault – none of it. You gave me a second life —” Keith started to shake his head in protest, and Shiro put a finger over his lips. “I _know_ it was you, Keith, I know we found each other for a reason. That reason was to make this place beautiful again, together, and to be here, together, now.”

Tears like the finest spun crystal fell from Keith’s dark eyes then. “You think so?” he whispered. “You really think I deserve this place?”

“Of course you do,” Shiro promised. “There is nowhere else I would rather be, and no one else I would rather be with.”

A wolf stood atop the altar and barked at them. Keith laughed, his face pink, as the wolf bounded down and trotted over to them, licking Keith’s face and bumping his nose against Shiro’s jaw. “You’re good company, too,” Shiro assured him, accepting the wolf as yet another strange but enchanting part of his second life. Keith laughed harder. He was still crying, but it was a good cry. Shiro had never seen him smile before, and now, he could not seem to stop.

“Shoo, Kosmo,” Keith said, patting the wolf’s rump and splashing him with water until he yipped and leapt away. “I need to be kissed at least until dawn.”

“At least?” Shiro grinned, and squeezed Keith’s ass, nipping his way down Keith’s arching neck with more sting than before. “Only kissing?”

“I expected you to be more creative than that,” Keith reproached, breathless and bold, now. “You have two hands now; put them to good use.”

“Of course, my lord,” Shiro teased, and ripped open the laces of Keith’s tunic, his hands stroking downwards as his lips traced where the god of death’s heart beat, alive and well.


End file.
